A/N: Alrighty well, sorry for the lack of updates on my other story. I think it's on hold until further notice. On top of that I have just moved so I am typing this on my dad's laptop.
This is my version of the sequel to The Time Thief by Linda Buckley-Archer.
I own nothing duhh.
p.s. I'm not sure what season it is, so I'm going to guess winter. If someone knows, feel free to tell me :
Click.
Anjali stared in disbelief at the compact blue cell phone clutched in her frozen fingers. She looked at it for a long time, her eyebrows arched in shock, and her eyes wide in fear. Suddenly she snapped it shut, and, with a businesslike manner, slid it smoothly into her purse, fixed her hair, and walked out of the alley she had been hiding in. Her shoulders were back, and she was desperately trying to look like she had every right to be there.
It was late evening and all the tourists would be in fancy restaurants, and for the moment, the pickings were slim. Anjali let a small sigh escape her lips and tucked back a loose strand of hair before composing herself once more. She had gotten used to the nice life with Vega Riaza, and was more than a little reluctant to leave it. She would have to cut back on costs and pick back up on the pick-pocketing. Starting with her cell phone. Emergencies only, she decided, and reached into her purse to turn it off.
As her fingers grasped around in the bottom of her knock-off designer purse and closed around the metallic object, something warm brushed across her knuckles. She bit back a shriek and pulled her hand out, heart racing fast. And then she remembered. Remembered that it was nothing but a mouse. A mouse that until quite recently had another living, breathing owner. A mouse that had had Tom. Unconsciously her eyes filled with tears, and she reached in her purse once again.
She turned off her phone with a press of a button and threw it back in her purse before setting off quickly. A tear made a track down her face and dripped off her chin. She wiped it away angrily. It was not as if she had particularly cared for the boy, really, it had been the other way around. Unbidden, a memory came to her mind of both Mr. Riaza and Tom jumping violently at the sound of a toaster. She remembered that at the time, she had actually started to believe Mr. Riaza, or as Tom called him, The Tar Man, about his crazy fantasies that both he and Tom were from the seventeenth century.
Mr. Riaza had hired her to be his guide and provided her with much needed security, both financially, and against the local gangs. She stopped and looked around her, hastily trying to appear composed and secure. She saw no one, but knew it wouldn't be long before he would be back, to threaten her not to talk. Of course, she had other plans, but he was still bigger and stronger than her and had a gang of thugs. She needed leverage, and since she could no longer depend on anyone but herself once again, she had to return to the scene of the crime, at least for a moment.
Her stomach became a pit of fear, and she had never remembered being as nervous in her entire twenty-and-some odd years. Not even the first time she had just picked up a strangers purse and walked away with it. No, that gave her thrills. Yet as she drew closer to the skyscraper apartment, a chill ran down her spine. This situation was spiraling out of her control, and she did not want to get incarcerated for manslaughter, or for being accessory, and the cause, at least, indirectly.
In the distance she heard sirens and sped up her pace. It wouldn't be long before the police went looking for the videotape of the murder. She had marked out the surveillance camera herself when she had rented the apartment in Mr. Riaza's name. She knew from experience that the security booths were usually a small cramped room in the rear of the apartment complex.
She turned the corner and her- no, Mr. Riaza's apartment building came into view, and she stopped short involuntarily. The place was covered with yellow police tape, and was swarming with medical officers and police, she was only able to distinguish them by the uniforms they wore. They were loading an empty stretcher into the back of a white ambulance and one police officer casually glanced her way. She drew back into the shadows, not wanting to be seen, and therefore possibly remembered. After a moment, the young man's gaze returned to surveying the loading with indifference. Anjali felt it prudent to continue on her 'merry' way, and walked past the building, her head down and pace fast.
Once past the police tape, she slipped onto a small lane between the apartment complex and its neighbor. The road, she knew, led to the parking garage, but what she was looking for was the small door that was marked 'Security Only.' It was located next to some empty chipped and rusty rubbish bins.
She looked left and right only once before quietly opening the door and slipping inside. The room was empty and untouched. Anjali was surprised, she thought the police would have been more thorough and efficient, coming for the tape as soon as they saw the security cameras. She snuck a peek at the monitors and saw a detective squat down and look at the sizeable gap between the stairs and the corner where Tom had hit his head. For a moment she was forced to relive the moment and imagined she could hear the sickening crack of bone breaking against stone. She fought to breathe and then shook her head. As she pulled the tape from the VCR she realized why no one had come for it. They all thought it was a common accident. She knew it was an accident, but it was still a death of an innocent teenager, and was thinking as if it was common knowledge. She stopped and forced herself to recall the words of Vega Riaza.
Do not write, speak, or even think of information you could not be privy to unless you want to be caught.
She slipped the tape into her voluminous purse, once more caressing the mouse, and then straightened, gliding to the door. She pressed her ear against the door to see if the coast was clear, and heard muffled voices.
"-sent me to get the videotape. Just in case, you know, procedure."
"Oh yes, procedure. We're all familiar with that."
The two male voices broke into laughter and Anjali looked for a hiding spot. Her heart had leapt into her throat again; however this time she did not let it rule her mind. Her mindset became that of the officers. The first place she would look would be the supply closet, and the cupboard under the small television set. The last place she would look, if she was a normal officer on a normal accident case, would be up. Up it was. Anjali pried the vent open and shoved her purse inside, followed by her slim figure. She wedged her legs in the back of the vent and hoped the officers wouldn't be long, because she was going to cramp up fast. She pulled the vent closed, but when she let go it swung open again. She scrabbled for it as the door opened and managed to pull it closed, holding it so it wouldn't fall.
She peeked through the vent and watched the two jolly officers go for the VCR. His laughter soon turned into an unreadable mask as he found it empty.
"Johnson, go find Detective Morris and tell him we have a possible situation."
From what Anjali could see, Officer Johnson had gone white, before he exited quickly. She quickly judged him to be the weak pushover type of cop. And, as she suspected, the other young man below began searching the cupboard, closet, and even knelt down to peek under the counter. But Anjali had chosen well, for not once did the officer look up, even casually. If he had, he would have seen the tips of her fingers desperately trying to hold the vent closed. She heard a rumbling from behind her just as the door opened again and Detective Morris walked in.
A blast of warm air drowned out the conversation below and Anjali began to sweat. Things were about to heat up, and she hoped they left before it became unbearable. Maybe it wasn't the greatest place to hide after all.
She could only watch, helpless and growing steadily warmer as the detective dusted for prints on the VCR and console, and then the inside doorknob. A trickle of sweat ran down the side of her face, but she didn't dare shift to wipe it away; she would only make noise.
After what seemed like an eternity, a click behind her informed her that the heating unit had been turned off, although the hot air remained. She could hear the voices below again.
"Sir, what about the outside latch?" asked the inquisitive officer who had searched the room before.
"I could try it, but more likely than not any prints made were obscured by your own when you opened the door." Detective Morris sighed and ran his hand through his hair, as if the afternoon's activities had exhausted him.
Anjali gave a sigh of relief that echoed down the air vent and back. She immediately bit her tongue and pulled up her fingertips as high as she dared.
"Did you hear that?" Officer Johnson asked. Anjali hadn't even noticed him return to the room.
"It was probably nothing," the first policeman admonished. "These posh apartments often have bad wiring and the ducts are probably cheap. Don't worry about it."
Detective Morris only nodded distractedly, looking around the room for anything he might've missed. He had a bad feeling about this case. A simple accident was fine to deal with, but if had to chase killers and thieves, well, that just added grey hair to his head. But it was what he had signed up for twenty years ago when he had joined the force, and had developed a sort of sixth sense as to whether the case would be open and shut, or more difficult. This case was going to be a challenge he did not relish.
As he opened the door to leave, a muffled squeaking came from the air vent, and Anjali's head snapped up in time to see Tom's mouse make a break for it, scuttling through the vents. Anjali let her go, wishing she had the freedom of the mouse.
Morris shook his head and stepped out the door. Anjali could have sworn she heard him mutter something about the place having rats.
She waited thirty full minutes before daring to come out of hiding. By then she was cramped up, and when she tried to support herself on her legs, she just crumpled and fell on the linoleum. Rapidly she massaged her legs, trying to get the blood going again. Shortly thereafter, she was able to stand, and walk with a minor limp. She pressed her ear to the door, and, hearing nothing, slowly pushed it open and tottered out into the driveway. Immediately she felt the cold through her thin sweater and stumbled out onto the sidewalk. A gust of wind caught her, and shivers rippled her small frame. She set herself against the wind and was only half frozen by the time she made it back to her own tiny flat.
The next four days she spent in relative seclusion. She had a little food, and enough water. She had forgotten to pay her heating bill, having spent so much time at the penthouse, and because her grand-da was out of town, she hadn't bothered. So instead she took to walking around the house with at least two sweaters on and a blanket wrapped around her. On the fourth day, all that was left in the cupboard was a little can of chicken soup that barely filled her up. She sighed, knowing that she would have to go out and face music, so to speak.
With a reluctant sigh, she grabbed her purse, and then paused. She could feel the hard rectangle shape that was the videotape, and she slowly pulled it out. For the past few days she had pushed the thought of the video tape and what it represented from her mind. Her fingers, nearly frozen, ran back and forth across the hard plastic, her nails making a sound similar to that of a comb being run across a hard surface. Inside she was struggling with herself. She stepped closer to her small television set, her finger poised over the power button. Did she really want to relive it again?
A tape pushed into the VCR answered her question, and for a moment all the feelings that had threatened to overwhelm her for the past few days surfaced. She took a deep breath, then another. Once her mask was in placed, she sat down, her nose only a few inches from the screen. She hesitated, her breathing a little bit irregular, and then hit play.
A picture appeared on the screen of the lobby where the elevators were. She fast forwarded until she saw herself run into the lobby and a scene unfolded, almost like one from a soap opera. She watched herself pressed the call button for the elevators desperately, and then as a burly youth sauntered up behind her. Some words were exchanged, while she surreptitiously kept an eye on what floor the elevator was on. The boy took a swing at her, and she easily dodged it, vying for the stairs.
There was no sound on the tape, but it didn't matter. She heard the ding of the elevator in her mind, and closed her eyes, no longer needing to watch to see the moment that had haunted her dreams as of late.
Tom had come charging up the stairs. She caught a glimpse of him just as she went down in a tangle of arms and legs with her blond attacker. She tried to convey to him that he should leave, or go find Vega Riaza. He was too stunned to do anything but watch as her attacker pulled her hair, and then she was holding her head, and a scream ripped out of her. He threw her against the wall and placed his arm across her windpipe. Anjali struggled desperately, and could feel blood dripping down her face. He drew his arm back to strike her, and she had turned her head and closed her eyes, waiting for the blow that never came.
"I told you I was gonna teach you a lesson. . ." he whispered to her, breathing in her face.
She felt a shift in her attackers balance and involuntarily turned her head and looked to see Tom tackling the boy. Her fear for herself mingled with fear for him and gratitude. The two fell backwards and Anjali darted away from him and up the stairs. Waves of fear washed over her and she couldn't stop shaking. She remembered thinking Tom was no match for the blond, being several years his junior and half as wide. Tom had clung on like a monkey, covering the boys eyes with his hands until he was violently thrown off, and Anjali watched in horror as his body landed badly on every step until his head hit the wall with a sickening crack that echoed. When the sound stopped, both Anjali and the blond youth were frozen, paralyzed in shock.
Then with every fiber of her being screaming, she had run down the stairs, putting her head on his chest, feeling for a pulse, and getting nothing.
"You've killed him!" she shouted, her voice echoing up and down the stairwell, she was sure people as far away as Canada could hear her.
"It wasn't my fault! I didn't mean to do it!"
"Murderer!" Anjali had screamed desperately before jumping up and pounding on his chest. He shoved her away and she hit the wall, and sank down it until she was sitting on the cold floor.
"First time I saw you I knew you was trouble. You're a jinx, you are. . ." and then he had left, left Anjali alone with the victim of a malicious accident.
She had knelt by him, seen his mouse, and picked it up, not even caring that the night before she had told him it smelled. The lift whirled into action as someone else called it, and Anjali knew she would be discovered, and there was nothing she could do for Tom anymore. She kissed his forehead and then left.
"I'm sorry, Tom. . . I'm sorry for everything. . ." she had whispered that afternoon, and found herself whispering it once more.
She opened her eyes to see herself walk out of the camera's view and she violently yanked the television plug from the wall. The television went dark. Her eyes had that sleepy feeling she got after she had been crying, and when she put her hand to her cheek it came away wet. She hadn't even realized she was crying.
She just sat there on the floor, time passing indeterminably. She was brought to her senses by the sound of a train thudding by her cramped flat. When she put her hand to her cheek again, she found it dry. She uncrossed her legs and flexed them, trying to make the pins and needle sensation go away. When it did, she stood, popped the tape out, put it on the counter and quickly scribbled a note to whoever found it. It read 'play me.' She hoped it wouldn't come to that however, and then grabbed a tape of a dance recital of her when she was seven that her grandfather had saved. She shoved it inside her purse, smoothed her hair, and then walked out the door and down the stairs of the apartment building.
She blinked in the sudden sunlight, and put a hand up to shade her eyes. Across the street, she watched a youth slip away from where he had been posted, most likely to watch for her, she assumed. His friend, a big brunette who would have normally been good looking under any other circumstances, stopped pitching copper coins against the wall and attempted to look casual as he sauntered her way.
She sighed and ran her fingers through her hair. She could meet the gang leader his way, or her way. She preferred her way. "Tell your master," she said, putting as much contempt as she could into the word, "That I will be at Goodwin's Café when Ben strikes two. I won't chicken out, and he better not either."
The young man stopped halfway across the street and cocked his head. His eyes searched hers, and then he shrugged good naturedly, "Orders are orders."
Anjali stared at him for a moment and then took off at an abrupt pace, heading towards tourist central. While she was waiting, she figured it might as well do her some good to collect a little cash.
Once she reached the teeming open market, she took off, casually watching for someone who wasn't paying attention to their wallet or purse, also keeping a suspicious eye on her pursuer, not sure if he would sell her out or not. Deciding if she did her job right and was sneaky enough, it he would never be the wiser. She continued on, weaving through stalls, looking for the right mark. At last she found one, in a crowd circled around an entertainer. Everyone was cheering as the man juggled while on a unicycle, careful not to trip up on the uneven cobblestone.
Her mark was an old woman, her sixties, she guessed, and one hundred percent tourist. And rich by the looks of it. She wouldn't miss a little bit of cash. Anjali pretended to be interested in the show and walked up behind the woman. When everyone began clapping and cheering again, she reached into the real designer purse and pulled out a wallet with satisfying weight. She quickly slipped it into her own purse and looked back at her follower. He had looked away for the moment, leaving her little crime unseen.
Big Ben struck half past one, and she saw the first sentry join the other. They whispered to each other briefly before he left again. Anjali decided not to press her luck and headed directly towards Goodwin's Café. She picked an outside table, in view of several sweeping cameras from department stores up and down the street. She ordered a coffee, black, no sugar, and leafed through the wallet.
It had many credit cards, but Anjali ignored them—too dangerous. She opened it wider, and a bunch of pictures fell out. She scrabbled for them, not even sure why she bothered. They were all of a bunch of children, along with two of a smiling group of people, presumably all family. She looked through the pictures listlessly, seeing the innocent smiles of happier times. She shook her head, trying to convince herself it wasn't her fault.
She forced her emotions into a little box in her mind, and took a few deep breaths. When she was okay, she looked into the thick part of the wallet, and while she smiled with a grimace, inside she stopped caring. She drew a twenty pound note out of the bundle, and then threw the wallet ungracefully back inside her purse.
Her coffee came, she drank it slowly. About ten to two, the gang leader himself showed up. Anjali was unpleasantly reminded of the day it all started, when she blamed a theft on him after he had hit on her. That was the day she had met Vega Riaza and watched him dislocate a lads shoulder without so much as a blink.
He was tallish, and blond, and in another lifetime, she might have considered going out with him. However, his eyes were filled with a cold fury, though he visibly fought his anger down. He sat, thumping his chair and causing unwelcome stares from the other customers. She stared him down, and at last he looked away, beckoning to someone Anjali hadn't noticed previously. A petite redhead sauntered over. She had an arrogant look on her face that made Anjali take an immediate dislike to her. Worse, the expression was familiar, because she herself often wore it.
"My girlfriend, she's got brains." He chuckled, obviously pleased with himself for some reason. The girl took a seat next to them. "Danielle," she said briskly, eyeing Anjali's purse with a mixture of well hidden fear and excitement.
"Anjali," Anjali replied, pulling her purse closer towards her, out of range.
"Jon," the blond spoke up, and Anjali realized that up until that moment, she hadn't even known his name.
After a moment's pause, there was, "Well, did you bring it?" from Jon.
His girlfriend held up a hand. "Now Anjali," she said slowly, "Obviously you have as much a reason not to want to get involved in 'this' as we do, otherwise you would have gone to the police already." She took a breath but Anjali interrupted her.
"Get involved in 'this'?" She asked, more than a little outraged. "'This' is murder. Tom was innocent."
"Exactally, it was purely accidental. Jon here is guilty of nothing but self defense," Danielle recovered, trying to gain the upper hand.
"Yeah, sure, that's what it was," Anjali snarled. "Tom was half his size and even if it hadn't been Tom, it probably would have been me." That part was said with a cold detachment.
"Please, I wouldn't have killed you!" Jon laughed, brushing it off. That attracted some more unwanted attention from the other customers. The two girls tried to force a fake smile.
"Practicing for a play," Danielle said brightly, as way of explanation. Satisfied, they returned to their own coffees.
Danielle dropped all pretense. "All right, where's the tape? I know you have it, cause when we went, it was already gone, and the officers were talking about it being suspicious."
Anjali patted her purse, and, expecting the lunge for it, pulled back. Jon grabbed nothing but air.
"Now wait just a minute. I know the second I hand this over, I sign my own death warrant. And besides, I made a copy."
Both Jon and Danielle paled. This, of course, was a complete and utter lie, but they didn't know that.
"Furthermore, I left it in a safety deposit box, with strict instructions that if I do not check up on it in person every two weeks, that it be sent to the police." She watched them take this in with a calculating mind.
"You're bluffing," Danielle whispered, fearful and bold at the same time. "I don't believe you."
"Fine then, don't," Anjali said, shrugging her shoulders and keeping her poker face up.
Danielle looked uncertain.
"So whaddia want from us then?" Jon snarled.
"Immunity. From you and your gang. Not a word breathed about my other 'activities' to anyone. I want the watcher on me removed, and I want you to suffer for what you did each and every day."
Jon gaped. "This is as much your fault as it is his!" Danielle practically shrieked, outraged. She then offered a fake smile to the other customers.
"I know that," Anjali whispered, a lump in her throat, "But I'm already suffering guilt for it."
Both Jon and Danielle leaned back in their seats and had a whispered conference. Anjali sipped at her now cold coffee and watched with indifference.
"Fine," Jon said tightly. "Immunity granted. Your 'career' secret is safe, consider the watcher gone. But in return, I want one of the tapes. So I have something on you. 'Cause you're still guilty by… by…"
"Guilty for not doin' anything to stop him from killing your friend," Danielle supplied.
Jon turned an interesting shade of white and stood abruptly. Anjali reluctantly drew out the video of her dance recital, looked at it, and then put it back in her purse. "I'll give it to one of your lackeys tomorrow morning, outside Westminster Abbey.
"What, you don't have it here? What was that then?" Danielle asked incredulously.
Anjali shook her head, "Nothing more than a decoy."
"I knew you were bluffing!"
"Not bluffing, just don't have it here with me."
"Fine," Jon cut in, tired of the debate. "Tomorrow. Westminster Abbey, nine o'clock." And with that, both Danielle and Jon left.
Anjali leaned back and sighed, fighting tears that seemed to constantly threaten to spill over, and rubbed her eyes. She drained the dregs of the cold coffee, shivered in the cool air, and handed the twenty to a waiter. "Keep the change," she muttered, and stood, ready to make her way home.
A/N: Okay, needs a LOT of work, I know. Want to Beta for me? Message me please.
R&R! Pleasee! No promises on when the next chapter will be up. I want reviews tho. They inspire me :